HPEndurance
by Live.Laugh.Love.Listen.Music
Summary: In response to SimplyPotterHead's fanfiction challenge on Tumblr. Completed as challenge has been cancelled unfortunately.
1. Round 1: Snowed In

Tap. Tap. _Tap. _

Rosmerta slowly paced up and down the line of quivering trainees, lips pressed firmly together in increasing ire. As she came to a standstill, she tapped her foot again – Tap. Tap. _Tap_ – watching with a savage kind of pleasure as the thirteen young wizards and witches cringed at each crisp _tap_. All eyes in the room were on her.

A mirror hung crookedly from the wall behind their head, in which Rosmerta caught a glimpse of herself. What with the fierce expression on her face, a trickle of blood running from her temple and her hair and clothes coated in a thick layer of grey dust, she looked as she had done at the Battle of Hogwarts. Fortunately, that battle had been fought over two years ago, and her current state had been not been caused by the violence of that night, but the cowering group before her.

Ignoring the sharp pain in her arm, Rosmerta sighed. It had been such a good day. Twelve hours previously, she had woken to the dawn sunlight streaming through her little bedroom window and cheerful sound of birdsong. She should have realised there and then that fate was setting her up for something terrible. Instead of doing the sensible thing and hopping straight back into bed, she had leapt up from her bed and stuck her head out the window. It was oddly sunny for the season, so the main street was uncommonly crowded with witches and wizards going about their daily business. Cutting a path through the throng was a man Rosmerta had immediately recognised as Reginald Cattermole – not quite a patron, but still a common sight at the _'_sticks – and a group of his trainee magical maintainers. They was a familiar enough sight in Hogsmeade: the almost uninhabited landscape around the village allowed for both plenty of space to practice the more dynamic spells required in their job without the risk of a muggle stumbling on the scene and a bit of entertainment for the villagers as their spells illuminated the sky.

Plus, the exhausted trainees brought a roaring trade to the 'sticks in the evening.

During the day, the flow of customers brought in stories with their galleons. Rosmerta was informed by Mrs Flume of yellow rain on the hills to the north of Hogsmeade, of small tornadoes by Romilda Vane and of heavy snowfall by Stan Shunpike.

"Focusing on the weather somewhat, aren't they?" Rosmerta remarked, refilling Stan's tankard.

"There's been trouble at the Ministry, I 'eard..." Stan murmured, contemplating his tankard. The poor bloke hadn't been the same since his arrest. "Them 'umidity charms gone wrong in the offices an'... an' the courtrooms," he swallowed. "Rainin'... hailin'... snowin'... Couple o' folks in St Mungo's. Fell down an' hit their 'eads or sommat. Magical maintenance up to their ears in it. Literally."

She raised her eyebrows. "Makes you glad not to work in the Ministry. Humidity charms! It's just a good old log fire for us lot."

"We don't even 'ave that on the Bus. Ern an' I 'ave our thermal undies an' not much more."

Rosmerta laughed and moved along the bar to serve other customers. The afternoon passed relatively slowly, with time enough to stop and chat with the regulars. Most villagers were busy at work and with no students visiting, trade didn't pick up until five o'clock swung around, bringing with it what seemed like half the village plus Reg and his trainees. Rosmerta knew the majority of them from their Hogwarts days, though there were a few who must have been home educated or gone to other schools.

"Alright Reg? How's the family?" She asked, as the man in question squeezed his way through the throng around the bar, dragging two of his trainees behind him. He looked exhausted, irritable and in dire need of alcohol. "Leanne and Blaise, am I right?"

"They're good, good," answered Reg as Leanne and Blaise nodded. "Maisie's just got her Hogwarts letter. Ellie and Alfie are just about burning up in jealousy."

"It won't be long 'til they're off there too," Rosmerta smiled. "What can I get you?"

"Thirteen butterbeers please," he said, "and a firewhiskey for me."

Rosmerta began filling tankards. "Tough day?"

"You have no idea," he murmured, rubbing his face. "You'd think that they were third years by the standard of their charms... Too much partying and not enough studying, eh Leanne?"

"It was my birthday, Mr Cattermole," said Leanne exasperatedly. "I only turn twenty once. I bet things went a bit wild on your twentieth."

"For your information, I spent the evening listening to Celestina Warbeck on my parents' wireless!"

"I heard that was because you started drinking at nine o'clock in the morning," Blaise remarked slyly.

Reg looked affronted as Rosmerta and Leanne burst out laughing. Blaise merely smirked, handing her a handful of galleons and accepting about half of the tankards, which he levitated over the heads of two dozen or so customers to the table around which the trainees were grouped. Rosmerta raised her own wand and, with one simple _Wingardium Leviosa_, sent the remaining tankards on their way.

"Cheers, Madame Rosmerta," said Leanne. Reg, however, raised his eyebrow. "You're chastising me for getting drunk but breaking your own rules?" He indicated a sign hanging behind the bar, emblazoned with the legend 'No wizardry permitted in this pub!' with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes. "My pub, my rules. Besides, you know that's only there for the drunks. Remember that time Mundungus Fletcher set fire to his own hair?"

"How could I forget?" Reg replied, taking a sip of his firewhiskey, which seemed to reinvigorate him somewhat. "I'd best be back to the group. They have a tendency to forget all common sense unless they're watched over constantly." Rosmerta laughed uproariously, letting Reg shoulder his way back through the crowd to his trainees.

Unfortunately, Reg didn't watch over his apprentices constantly. As the hours passed, the group became merrier and rowdier, with frequent trips to the bar for more rounds of butterbeer and firewhiskey. The magical maintainers-to-be attracted a crowd of interested customers and hecklers, one of whom cheerfully goaded that the snowstorm earlier in the day had been more of a 'light flurry' than a proper blizzard.

"Oh yeah?" said one of the trainees, leaping to his feet. It was Anthony Goldstein, Rosmerta recognised, flushed with alcohol and anger. His fellow trainees had similar expressions on their faces: several of them started fingering their wands in their pockets.

"Cool it, Tony," said Reg from somewhere near the bottom of his third firewhiskey. Anthony ignored him, as did the heckler, whom Rosmerta now recognised as Mundungus Fletcher. She hadn't realised it was him without his trademark cloud of pipe smoke.

"I mean, even I could do better!" Mundungus jeered. Several trainees had now drawn their wands and the pub had fallen silent, watching the confrontation.

"Oh yeah? Think you can do better than _this_?" shouted Anthony, who drew his wand to the cheers of his fellows – she hurried out from behind the bar, her own wand raised, with a cry of "No magic in my pub!" – and slashed it through the air. Whatever slurred spell he cast was lost in the collective gasp of the customers, but the violet sparks released caught everyone's eye. For perhaps half a second, in which Rosmerta knew something terrible was about to take place, nothing happened, but then –

CRASH!

With an almighty, cataclysmic outburst of noise, the world exploded. Rosmerta was thrown forward, the ceiling falling down as the floor raced up to meet her. There was screaming, there were things – tankards, tables, people – thrown in every direction, there was torturous crunching, grinding sound and then... silence.

Ears ringing, gasping for breath, Rosmerta lay where she had fallen, half buried under something, too dazed to move. Slowly, ever so slowly, the world began to right itself. Her eyes focused; the ringing in her ears stopped. She became aware of a niggling pain in her arm and movement somewhere near her waist.

"Rosmerta! Rosmerta!" a voice cried. She tried to bring up a hand to rub at her face, but found she couldn't. Forcing down the rising panic, she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Everything she could see was grey. For a moment, this frightened her more than anything. Had she hit her head that hard? But no... Her breath was making little ripples in the grey by her mouth, like how waves rippled the sea bed. The grey was... dust?

"_Rosmerta!_" The voice cried again. The speaker sounded terrified. Rosmerta tried to get up, to tell the person that it was alright, to ask what the hell had happened to her pub, but found she couldn't. Truly frightened now, and more confused than ever, she started to struggle against whatever was holding her down.

"No! Rosmerta, no! Stay still! Leanne, you're meant to be keeping her still!" Leanne? She knew that name. Suddenly, Rosmerta realised who the speaker was.

"Reg?" She croaked. Her throat felt as though it was clogged with dust. She cleared it, and tried again. "Reg? What's happened? Why... why can't I move?" From somewhere nearby, a voice muttered a "Thank Merlin, she's conscious."

"Rosmerta, it's okay, it's okay," soothed Reg. Judging from his voice, the wizard was somewhere close by. "Try and stay still. The bar was knocked over and it fell on you. We've got to keep you still in case it broke your back." He was speaking very gently.

"It hurts, Reg," she murmured. "But I can feel my legs. My back is fine... Why can't you just levitate it off me?" Rosmerta felt someone's hands – Leanne's, she guessed – tighten momentarily around her. She blinked, trying to figure out what had happened. Her bar falling over couldn't have caused that much damage and... was that _rubble_ blocking her view of the rest of the pub?

"We're trying to think of a way to do that safely, Rosmerta. Don't worry, though! You'll be back on your feet in no time." Reg said, making an obvious effort to sound cheerful.

"You better do it, Reg," a familiar voice said. A patron, maybe?

"Okay, okay..." Reg muttered. He took a deep breath – an inhalation that the entire pub seemed to share – before he tentatively said, "Levioso." The pressure on her lower half slowly eased, until finally it was gone. Several pairs of hands seized her and dragged her away from the bar. Unsteadily, she clambered to her feet.

For the first time, Rosmerta got a look at the state of her precious 'sticks. It looked as though the roof had fallen in; most of the ceiling had collapsed – she saw the end of her bed dangling into the chasm and her pyjamas now decorated the classic brooms mounted on one wall - as had the wall between the main room and the private sitting room. Piles of rubble were everywhere and dust covered everything. The bar had been knocked over and held down by a supporting roof beam, which still rested on the end of the bar. Rosmerta immediately realised why she had been kept still: the beam looked as though it was supporting the rest of the ceiling. Hastily moving the bar to free her could have brought down the rest of the ceiling.

The customers were sitting on piles of rubble or huddled in groups. The injured had been laid out on a cleared spot of floor. There weren't many, thankfully, but the sight of them all covered in blood made Rosmerta's stomach turn. She knew all their names. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"What happened?" she whispered. Memories were flooding back of the war; of the destruction and death. What could have caused this?

"We've been snowed in," said Blaise, who was leaning against the door frame looking bizarrely unruffled. It took a moment for her to comprehend what he said.

"_What?_"

"Snowed in," repeated Blaise. "Apparently, magic and a drunken Goldstein doesn't mix well." He indicated Anthony, who was knelt on the floor, head in his hands. He looked up, shamefaced, as his name was spoken. The shock of the last few minutes seemed to have sobered him up somewhat.

"I am so, so sorry, Madame Rosmerta," he croaked. She chose not to acknowledge him.

"What do you mean, we've been _snowed in_?" She glanced round, and for the first time noticed how the door had buckled. Around the edges and through the splintered panels there was a glimpse of... snow? The cracked windows, too, seemed to be showing nothing but the white stuff. Then Rosmerta noticed the fireplace. The fire had gone out, and the entire thing was packed to the brim with snow.

They couldn't use the floo.

"What?" Rosmerta gasped weakly. "How... how did this happen?"

"Well, from what I can assume, it was a mixture between the mispronunciation of the spell and the wonky wand movement that caused this," said Reg, who had carefully lowered the bar back onto the floor. The ceiling creaked but thankfully stayed put.

"And what, exactly, is 'this'?" asked Rosmerta.

Blaise answered. "It appears that, instead of causing a snowstorm, Goldstein here" – he clapped Anthony on the shoulder – "caused a mass snowfall onto the pub, the force of which was enough to bring down the roof, clog the chimneys and block the doors and windows."

Rosmerta gaped at him, before glaring at Anthony. "Can't you read?" she growled, jabbing her finger towards where her 'no magic' sign had once hung.

"Um, Rosmerta..." Reg said, looking apprehensive. "That's not the worst news." She whirled around to face him, incredulous.

"How could this situation_ possibly_ be any worse?" She hissed, feeling anger begin to bubble in the pit of her stomach.

Reg swallowed, looking slightly terrified. "Due to the unstable nature of the building, I don't think it's safe to try to remove the snow with magic. It's contributing to the support of the building. The whole thing might collapse and since nobody here knows any structural spells –"

"Reginald," she ground out through clenched teeth, "you work in _magical maintenance_."

"Specialising in atmospheric charms," he snapped. "Believe you me, I wish I knew how to do this, but I don't."

"So you're telling me that we're trapped in here?" Rosmerta said, her voice shooting through an octave.

"...Yes" said Reg. She stared at him, appalled, before whirling around to face his group of trainees. "You lot," she hissed. The group jumped up, looking apprehensive. Slowly, she stalked towards them, looking each of them in the eye. "You," she said, pointing at one. "You and you and you... You lot cheered him on. And you!" Anthony Goldstein leapt to his feet. "You did this!"

The singled-out trainees unconsciously formed a line. Bit by bit, she paced up the line and back again, tapping her foot as she turned.

Tap. Tap. _Tap_.


	2. Round 2: Difficult Decision

Helena Ravenclaw sat on her horse, perhaps a foot from the edge of the forest, peering down into the valley below her. The weather was typical of the land of Alba: a dismal mist clung to the valley walls, depositing a light drizzle of rain on the little village centred on the valley floor. The wet had soaked through the edges of her cloak; her hair and face was damp. She shivered. There was more than an hour before dawn. Plenty of time to make her decision.

For a moment she mused not on her choice, but the process and emotions preceding it. There was an interesting contrast between the two stages of decision making: surely the difficulty should lie with planning the decision rather than choosing which action to take? Making a choice, after all, was a simple 'yes' or 'no'. It was odd, therefore, that she should find the idea of actively deciding on whether to bring her plan into fruition so trying. Of course, the disposition of the individual in question challenged the hypothesis. She relished the difficulty of the planning, the demanding nature of the work she had tasked herself with. Was it not foreseeable, then, that she would be troubled by the actual decision making? She was no Gryffindor, after all.

'_No, you are no Gryffindor. You are a Ravenclaw_', a low voice murmured in the back of her mind. The voice reminded Helena of her mother's as it was in the numerous moments – the uncomfortably numerous moments – in which Helena was a disappointment.

Helena let out a breath. If she made this decision, she would not be a disappointment in anyone's eyes. Even her mother would be unable to criticise her! If she did not make the decision, she would return to Hogwarts. Nobody knew she had left the castle: there would be no shame in returning with her task incomplete. Only she would know of her failure. Unless...

Her mother was uncannily good at reading faces; even more so when it came to Helena. If Lady Ravenclaw suspected she was upset with herself, nothing would prevent her discovering the truth and then... And then she would be even more of a disappointment.

Helena closed her eyes. The alternative was just as difficult to fathom. She knew there was good reason to make this decision. She knew countless lives might well be saved. She knew – in an ethical sense – her decision was already made. Risking one life to potentially save hundreds was ethically justifiable, whatever ethic one used.

To be the one life was risked, however, made the decision considerably harder.

Yet was her life even at risk? Her logical side scoffed at the mere thought. She was undeniably the most intelligent witch of her generation. Her spellcraft was unrivalled by her peers. The name 'Helena Ravenclaw' already demanded respect in academic circles formed by wizards four times her age. The likelihood of failure was minute! And yet even so...

It would take courage to proceed, not academic curiosity. It would take bravery to face the task ahead, not a desire to solve a growing problem. However, were not those motivations what brought people to acts of bravery? Was it not the intellectuals who faced the flames for their new ideas? Did she not have a new idea? Would she not have to face the flames? And – unlike countless before her – did she not have a plan?

She drew out a piece of folded parchment from inside her cloak. On its arrival, scarcely twelve hours previously, it had been tightly rolled, but multiple readings had made it flat. The letter had been addressed to one of the young women with whom Helena shared a dormitory, but after only one reading it had been discarded. Helena had stolen the letter, reading it in secret many times. She read it again, the rain making spots on the parchment.

_Deerist Maudie, _

_I wyte withe ye werst newes a soster can saye. No wyrds can help yu fore this. Tis withe gret sorow I wyte yu thus: Papa has gon to God. Ye mugles mistacen his magicks fore dark sorsry und bernt him. I am tolde his payne was soone gon. I holde yur memry close und bid yu to tacke care if yu leeve ye casle walls. Ye bernings are mor comon._

_Staye safe, deer soster._

_Yur Emma. _

Unlike the initial reading, in which she struggled with the strange spellings – if only the country was united under standardised writing! – Helena finished the letter in moments. The burning of Maud's father was the third reported since midwinter, a worrying number. Concern was also rising for the number of unreported burnings: not every wizard had a magical family to spread the news of their burning. All too many of the burnt were children. Helena suppressed a shudder of horror. Ideas had been growing in her mind since the first reported burning she had known, almost a year prior. Plans had been formed for the creation of a spell, a spell that could protect, a spell that could save. She had spent months researching and designing such a spell. Now came the ultimate test.

Down in the village, movement caught Helena's eye. A person – distance preventing her from identifying age or gender – had risen and in the pre-dawn light was performing some task near a small hut... Collecting eggs, perhaps? The appearance of another person alerted Helena to the time. Dawn was approaching. The time for decision making was now.

She let out a shaky breath. To do or not to do? To not do would mean failure. It would mean accepting there was a challenge to great for Helena Ravenclaw. It would also entail a gallop to the stables from which she had stolen the horse and riding equipment, apparation back to the gates of the Castle and a sprint to her dormitory in order for her early morning escapades to remain unknown.

To do would mean a ride down the valley and into the village. It would entail total trust in her abilities as a spellwright. It would mean she would declare herself a sorceress to the people of the village. It would mean being lead wandless to the stake and watching them set it alight. It would be the ultimate test for her creation.

The spell Helena had created would – in theory – protect her from the flames. She had tested on parchment and cloth, both attempts surpassing her expectations. Now came the final test: how would her spell work on a living, breathing person? And who better to test it on than the creator? There was little danger, after all. Her spell worked. It was only for final proof that this step was necessary.

She let out a breath. The distraught face of Maud floated in her mind. Her decision was made. Raising her wand, Helena whispered "_Custignis!_" and gave her wand a tight flick. Her skin glowed faintly yellow, before fading back to normal. She dug her heels into the flanks of her horse and smiled widely. She would do it. Looking to the south, to Hogwarts, she cried "Are you watching, Mother?" as she galloped towards her fate.

Two years later, Helena Ravenclaw stood before her mother's dressing table. The diadem sat innocently on its velvet pillow, glinting in the low light. With shaking hands, she reached for her last opportunity at success. This, finally, would prove her as wise as her mother. The metal was cool to touch, silver against the red of her burns.

Helena let out a breath. Hurridly, she wrapped the diadem in its velvet and tucked it into her pack. She had made her decision. "Goodbye," she whispered to the large, airy room, avoiding the carved eyes of the eagles that decorated the room. "Goodbye".


	3. Round 3: Drunken Confession

It was Christmas day, nineteen-ninety-four and she was seventeen years old.

_It was Christmas Eve, two thousand and seven and she was thirty years old._

Young, fun and happy.

_Old-ish, fun-ish and cynical... But still happy._

The Yule Ball had ended hours ago and the after-party was in full swing.

_The Ministry of Magic's Christmas Ball was dragging on for hours and all she really wanted was to go to bed._

The Weasley twins had suggested a naked masquerade.

_Some twit in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had suggested a masquerade._

Naturally, the idea of a naked anything had been shot down, but the masquerade idea had proved unexpectedly popular.

_Ironic, really. The whole thing was a catastrophe._

A group of prefects had asked Professor McGonagall for permission to hold a masquerade, which had been – surprisingly – allowed, but under the – unsurprising – stipulation that only those of age could attend.

_That she would attend was an unspoken expectation, what with not only her being an employee of the Ministry, but the daughter of one too._

This, of course, was ignored.

_Nevertheless, she would have made up some commitment in order to skip the event, but in the moments after Ludo asked if she was going, no excuse had presented itself. _

Every seventh and sixth year was there, and most of the fifth years too.

_Of course, she thought of a brilliant excuse as soon as the conversation had ended, but by that point it was too late. _

Thankfully, the expectation to sleep in on Boxing Day would give the party-goers time to sleep off their hangovers.

_She never liked to break a commitment – damn conscience! – and so resolved that if she had to go, she might as well enjoy herself._

Hangovers were guaranteed, given the large amount of alcohol smuggled in by the Weasley twins, though some more responsible students attempted to keet an eye on how much each masked figure was drinking.

_An open bar and a masked identity? The opportunity to drink herself silly with minimal repercussion had never seemed so appealing._

She had not been so careful. She was seventeen, after all, not thirty: her liver could manage a little fun.

_This was rather surprising, given the outcome of her last binge, all those years ago. _

Several firewhiskeys later, she had nicknamed her liver Frankie and challenged it to a drinking contest. Her dance partners found this hilarious.

_Remembering her horror and embarrassment almost made her rethink her plan. The thought of staying sober all evening just made her surer of it. _

The dungeon commandeered by the party-goers had taken on a lovely blur and the dancing just got better as the early morning hours skipped by.

_Besides, Frankie hadn't faced such a challenge in years. _

She didn't have a clue who she danced with: the padded masquerade cloaks hid all clues as to the identity of the wearers.

_The Ministry-provided robes for the ball were not quite ambiguous enough. She could tell the gender of the wearer, at any rate. _

Would the thought of possibly dancing with Slytherins bother her in the morning? Probably – she wasn't quite drunk enough to forget her house loyalties.

_It wasn't the most exciting evening. She had time enough to calculate the ratio of dances to drinks, which was possibly the most thrilling moment of the first hour. _

But it didn't really matter right now: she was young, fun and had a lifetime ahead of her.

_By the third hour, she was more than a little tipsy and had completed her fair share of dances._

She was dancing with somebody who seemed almost as drunk as she was.

_She decided it was time to retreat behind some decorative shrubbery. Dancing had left her dizzy and more than a little motion sick. _

His limbs were certainly flailing about in a vigorous manner that left her dizzy. There was something familiar about it...

_She wasn't alone for long. Another drunken figure stumbled to a rest beside her, slurring a greeting. The voice was familiar..._

Of course, it was Fred. She had become acquainted with his dancing in the official ball; drunk, it was even more spectacular.

_Of course, it was George: her friend of almost twenty years, her colleague of only two._

"Hey Fred!"

"'_lo George."_

"Ssshhhhhh!" He hissed, "This is meant to be a masquerade!" He tapped his maroon mask – complete with rotating feathers – sharply.

"_Isn't this meant to be a masquerade?" He asked, pulling off his maroon mask. It changed colour as he set it down on the floor, slowly fading to black. A mood masquerade mask. Wow. It certainly beat the tacky muggle rings her cousins liked to wear._

"Nothing can masquerade your dancing, Weasley."

"_A mask can't change your voice, George."_

"Such a glorious display shouldn't be hidden, Angie."

"_I could probably develop one that would," he murmured. "Confuse the pure-bloods with a Darth Vader mask... It would make events like this more interesting."_

"I know several healers that would disagree," she said, highly amused.

"_Anything would make this more interesting," she said, slightly despairingly._

"They'd be very impressed by my flexibility."

"_How about this?" _

"Or concerned for the welfare of nearby innocents," she quipped. He laughed slightly dazedly – he was very tipsy – but managed to stay standing.

"_Odgen's..."she sighed, spirits immediately boosted. Now that was a good brand of firewhiskey; Frankie would be working hard tonight._

"Harsh, harsh..." He said. "Fancy another drink?"

"_M'lady deserves only the best," George declared, bowing dramatically and almost falling flat on his face in the process. _

"Always," she said.

_She grabbed his arm, swaying almost as much as he was. Maybe another drink was a bad idea._

Fred dragged her through the crowded dungeon towards the drinks table. His hand was slightly clammy against hers.

_George leaned heavily against her, blinking dazedly. "Have I drank too much?" He asked the bottle of Odgen's. He waited for an answer, which didn't come, so he drank another mouthful. _

He poured out ten shots of firewhiskey, winking at her daftly with each shot. She giggled and hiccupped suddenly, to his amusement.

"_Maybe," she laughed, tipsily. "I know I have." She took the bottle from him and drank some herself. _

They drank the first shot together and then had a drinking contest. She managed four more; he managed three.

"_Shouldn't such a high ranking Ministry employee drink more..." he paused, searching for the word. "Moderately?"_

"Oooohhh," she said, swaying, "Somebody – can't – handle – their – lic... lic... liquor!" She punctuated every word with a victorious poke.

"_Best bit of a masquerade; nobody knows it's me getting sloshed... But anyway, high rankin'?" She slurred. "Yeah, right. You're higher up the peckin order, Georgie." He rolled his eyes._

"I'm younger..." He protested. "Not so experienced... You're stealing my innocence, Angie." She snorted with laughter.

"_Am not. 'm a consultant for an 'perimental charms committee, Angie," he hiccupped._

"What innocence?" She tapped him on the nose. His freckles had blurred together.

"_Yeah, well, they like you."_

"Yeah, well, least I tried... Least I asked out a girl who can drink me under the table..." He said.

"_Hey! I like you, Angie... Lot's o' people do... 'Licia an' Katie an Ollie do... Fred did..." He said._

It was only the sheer amount of alcohol flooding her system, preventing her rational side from filtering her words, that caused her to let it slip. She hadn't wanted him to find out this way; hadn't wanted him to find out at all. She watched his face crumple in confusion and then, heartbreakingly, hurt.

_It was only the sheer amount of alcohol flooding her system, preventing her rational side from filtering her words, that caused her to let it slip. She hadn't wanted him to find out this way; hadn't wanted him to find out at all. She watched his face crumple in confusion and then, heartbreakingly, hurt. _

"I only said yes to you because I thought you were George."

"_I only said yes to Fred because I thought he was you."_


End file.
